


Take My Hand

by gingersinthetardis



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Eiffel Tower, F/M, Hands, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, Masturbation, Other, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, but for now it's a one-shot smut fic, in which I have a fixation on Sacha Dhawan's hands and so should you, this may become a multichapter thing because I have a budding idea, yes they bang on the eiffel tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23405845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersinthetardis/pseuds/gingersinthetardis
Summary: He is all she can see when she closes her eyes. Specifically, it’s hands, she always remembers his hands. It is the way the Master talks emphatically, his hands flying about as he prattles on, how he brushes his messy hair from his dark eyes with a single delicate finger. It is the memory of his hands around her throat and the way he holds on to his coat lapels. It is even the way, when he'd been masquerading as O, that he touched her hand once when handing her a file.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 85





	Take My Hand

It's hard to say when the Doctor first noticed it. Certainly not when they first met, when he was Agent O and she was-- well, _he._ Her last regeneration had been a bit oblivious to things like this. Perhaps she should chalk it up to just that, a new regeneration, new preferences. Maybe she is just more observant now? Or it could be that she's focused on different things... 

Whatever the reason, the Doctor can't get the Master out of her head. 

Not in a literal sense, of course. No, she hasn't felt him in her mind since the night they'd met on the Eiffel Tower. The Doctor certainly doesn't think him dead; she's known him far too long to think he could be killed so easily. Yet who knows where he is now that she banished him to the Kasaavin realm. No, it's that the Doctor can't stop _thinking_ about him, hard as she might try. 

It's like the brief moments of contact they'd shared have scorched him into her mind. 

He is all she can see when she closes her eyes. Specifically, it’s his _hands_ , she always remembers his hands. It is the way the Master talks emphatically, his hands flying about as he prattles on, how he brushes his messy hair from his dark eyes with a single delicate finger. It is the memory of his hands around her throat and the way he holds on to his coat lapels. It is even the way, when he'd been masquerading as O, that he touched her hand once when handing her a file. Oh, she fantasizes about those hands when the Fam has gone to bed and she is left alone. Long, clever fingers, strong yet so soft and delicate. She dreams about those hands touching her as her own fingers trace the memories over her skin. 

She imagines them that night they met on the Eiffel Tower; how, in a fit of anger, the Master’s hands close tight around her throat. One hand keeps his grip tight, a slight pressure constricting her airway as the other slides down her collarbone and under her shirt. He leans in, the stubble of his beard scratching her cheek. His closeness makes her shudder; not with fear, though she ought to be afraid of him, but with anticipation. She can smell him; the scent of his skin and the gel he uses in his hair, something like peppermint toothpaste and smoke all mixed together. Her eyes flutter shut and she tilts her head back just enough to give him the unspoken permission she knows he seeks. 

The Master, of course, takes it, and sharp teeth bite down on her neck, his breath hot and ragged as she's suddenly pushed back against one of the tower beams. The Doctor grunts as the air is forced from her lungs. 

"What have you done, Doctor?" he growls in her ear as his free hand palms her breast beneath her shirt. Her nipples harden at the cold Parisian air and the excitement at having him pressed against her, while his thumb brushes over the pert skin and he smirks as if satisfied by her reaction. 

"No," she breathes, opening her eyes to gaze up at him. He's barely taller than her, and yet he's so much bigger. Stronger. She arches towards his touch with a shudder. "It's not what I've done, but what you're going to do." 

The Master seems to like this answer because he releases her throat and drags her into a searing kiss. It is not gentle in any way, but hungry and feral, his teeth biting into her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The Doctor's moan is muffled against his lips, but her hands fly up into his hair to hold him closer. 

After a moment, he tears himself from her grasp and spins her around, bending her over the railing of the tower. With deft fingers, he unhooks her braces and yanks at her trousers. Their button flies off the tower into the darkness, and just as quickly, the Master has her trousers down around her knees. The Doctor tries to turn her head to watch him, but one of his hands finds its way into her hair and pulls hard, drawing a cry from her lips. He forces her head skyward until she can't see anything but the spotlights dancing across the black sky, but she feels his hot breath on the back of her neck and the rustle of fabric against her bare skin. She wishes she could see him, touch him, but part of her understands that this is not the time. 

He gives no warning, but releases her hair and grips her waist as he thrusts into her unceremoniously. She hisses at the intrusion, but it only takes a few seconds for it to turn into a moan. The Doctor has been wet since the second he wrapped his hands around her throat and he knows it. 

The Master's pace is just as brutal as his kiss, his long fingers digging sharply into her hips, holding her there as he slams into her at a frantic pace. One hand slides up her spine, dances across her collarbone and curls around her neck again, drawing her up to standing, her back pressed against his chest. The other moves from her hip and grasps at her breasts again, his touch rough and unpracticed, but effective all the same. 

"Call me by my name," he snarls, as his hips snap against hers. The angle makes her moan, a soft whimper with each thrust, but that's apparently not good enough. The Master's free hand snakes around her hip and slips between her legs, those clever fingers rubbing her clit in maddening circles. She bites her lip in defiance, not willing to give in to his demands just yet. All she can focus on is the sound of skin against skin, their almost desperate gasps and moans echo through the night. The Doctor's whimpers becomes a cry as she feels a tight coiling of pleasure building in her belly. He's going to make her come, but not before he hears her say his name, this she knows. 

"Master," she gasps, gripping the railing with all her might as he buries his cock deeper within her. Her knuckles are white as she holds on and braces herself against him. 

" _Louder_." 

"Oh-- Master!" The Doctor cries out again and his thumb and forefinger pinch her clit to turn her cry into a scream. 

"AGAIN!" he bellows into the night, speeding his pace as he feels her orgasm barreling ever closer. 

It doesn't occur to the Doctor to argue this time, because at that very moment the tension snaps and she comes with a scream. 

" _MASTER!!_ " The cry is aloud, but it echoes in their mind through the still-there contact they share. That alone could be enough to drag the Master over the edge behind her, but with every muscle in her body clenched around his length, he might as well just leap off the cliff after her. With a guttural growl, he buries himself deep within her, his own body spasming with sharp waves of pleasure that block out the sound of drums for the briefest moment. 

\------------- 

The worst part about these fantasies though, is that when they're over, she's alone once more. Her fingers never do him justice. It's _just_ enough to leave her whimpering his name into her pillow so no one hears. 

“That’s the last time,” the Doctor whispers to herself, curling onto her side as her heartsbeat slows. But she can almost feel his hands on her skin, sliding around her waist to pull her closer. It's not the first time, and she knows it won’t be the last, not really.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading if you got this far. This is the first actual fic I've written in a long time, so my apologies if it's a bit of a mess. I may turn it into a multi-chapter deal, but we'll see. I've got another idea I'm tossing around. Follow me on tumblr at mostincrediblechange to read more of my roleplay work and see my art on occasion! xx


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